


Love Me Like You Promised

by saveupyourhopes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bathroom Sex, F/M, Oral Sex, Stressed Steve Rogers, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 23:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes
Summary: Steve has always been easy to love—except when he’s not.





	Love Me Like You Promised

Since the fall of Thanos, Steve hasn’t been the same.

He’d been there to welcome everyone back—his friends, all of them returned to Earth. Something lingered, though, and you couldn’t put your finger on it—something kept him up at night; something made you feel like he was tolerating your presence, never fully there.

The stress of having lost and found and lost again, maybe. He’d compartmentalized everything, bottling up the things that only got in the way of his task, only letting himself feel what was necessary to get the job done. That’s just how he does things, and you know that, but it doesn’t change the hard set of his shoulders, or that his eyes go glazed and distant when you’re watching TV together in bed, or that he only trims his beard when you point out that it’s getting rough around the edges. He smiles softly, then, and goes to make amends to it. He comes out of the bathroom, smoothing his hands over his newly trimmed, smoothed facial hair, waiting for you to remark on it. When you express your approval from a heap of bedclothes that have Steve’s smell all over them, he seems to spark with satisfaction, and then it dies.

There’s a resolution to every conflict, a solution to every problem, and you intend to find the solution to this one. Steve has always been easy to love—except when he’s not, when he’s drawn as tight as a ball of wire, when his duties leave him tense and strained.

You catch him in the doorway of the bathroom, in a crisp white t-shirt and navy boxers, ready to freshen up for the night. You touch his shoulder with a gentle hand.

“Hey,” you softly say, wanting to get his attention. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he returns, glancing over his shoulder. He smiles when you slide your hand up around the back of his neck, your fingers carding through the half-moon curls at his nape. He responds when you touch him—he always does—but not like he used to. You fix him with a look, your eyes soft, gently probing. He asks a question with the gentle quirk of his eyebrows.

“I’m fine,” he says, before you have a chance to open your mouth and say what you were thinking. You hate that about him, sometimes—how he seems to read your mind. His premature defense doesn’t satisfy you, though, and you flatten your expression in an attempt to convey your disapproval.

“You’re not fine,” you tell him, and he knows that you’re sure of it; you can tell by the suddenly defeated look on his face. “You’ve been through Hell. You took care of everyone when they came back; you made sure they were safe and healthy. But you won’t do the same for yourself.”

“I’ve been trying — ”

“You haven’t even tried,” you press, cutting him off. He’s walking away from you, into the bathroom, where he turns on the water at the marble sink and gives it time to warm up. “Steve.”

“We’re not talking about this— _I’m_ not talking about this. Not right now,” he stubbornly says. He bends down to draw handfuls of water up to his face, scrubbing it with his callused hands until his cheeks are flushed pink. He doesn’t seem to feel you moving behind him, sliding your hands around his waist. You skate your fingertips down along the outline of his cock beneath his underwear, looking in the mirror to see Steve’s jaw clenching as his face appears from behind a clean towel. He hangs it up, leans over the sink and clenches a fist around the edge of it, as if steadying himself. 

“We don’t have to talk,” you tell him. You press a kiss to his shoulder blade, soft, open-mouthed, a path meandering up to the back of his neck where you have to nuzzle his hair aside. He smells clean; it’s intoxicating. “Don’t you remember telling me how I have to take time to decompress after something stressful happens?” you ask him, specifically remembering a horrible day at work that he’d diligently talked you through, with a hand in your hair and two firm fingers deep inside of you, his mouth coaxing you down with his lips grazing your ear. He’d been so gentle and sure, and when you came, it tore through you so viciously that you thought you might cry; the release was incredible.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice coarse, rumbling up from somewhere in his chest. In the mirror, you can see his jaw clenching, the muscle fluttering. “I remember.”

“It only applies to me?” you ask him, your hand slipping more firmly around the shape of his cock. You can feel him widening his stance, hear his bare feet shuffling on the tile. “I didn’t realize we were so one-sided.”

“You know we’re not,” Steve argues, half-hearted. He reaches down, gets a big hand around your wrist to pull your hand away from him. Then he’s turning, leaning against the edge of the sink and holding your face between his hands, bending his head down to kiss you. “It’s different.”

“It’s not different,” you insist, pulling out of his grasp, watching him fold his arms over his chest. He clenches his jaw again. “When’s the last time you kissed me without me kissing you first? When’s the last time you even looked at me like you wanted to?” You stand there with your arms folded across your chest, too, your body language closed-off to him—especially to him.

“You think I don’t want to?” Steve asks, sounding incredulous.

“I know you don’t want to. I know it’s been hard. I know you lost a lot. But everyone’s back now. Everything’s back to how it was before and we’re supposed to be moving forward.” You look him in the eye, not backing down from your argument though it’s difficult to stand in front of him, leaning so casually against the sink, looking at you from underneath those dark eyelashes, saying nothing.

You sigh. His silence must mean the end of the conversation, but as you huff and turn away from him, you hear his voice behind you; hear him move, asking, “Where do you think you’re going?” and feel his hand snatching your wrist, tugging you into the solid heat of his body. You can feel him—half-hard, pressed long and firm against you and wrapping you up in his arms, bending his head down to nuzzle the soft flesh of your earlobe.

“You’re right,” he says, like you didn’t already know. It feels good to hear him say it, anyway. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” you say, moving to work your way out of his arms when he tightens them, his voice hushed against your neck: shhh, wait.

Steve presses himself against your back; you can feel his cock slotted against you, his hand tickling your belly as it smooths over it and down into the waistband of your pajama shorts and panties. His free hand slides up and around your throat, not squeezing, guiding your head to rest back against his shoulder. “Let me make it up to you,” he whispers. “I was wrong. Let me make it right. You know I can.”

 

His hands are rough with calluses, but he drags his fingertips up through the slick folds of your pussy and his middle and forefingers slide easily around your clit. You grasp at his wrist with one hand and his hair with the other, feeling his mouth open against the crook of your neck, pressing hot, slow kisses to your flushed skin.

“You weren’t wrong, you just—you need to…” you trail off, swallowing. You feel his bare foot between both of yours, nudging your legs apart. You grasp for anything, gasping, and Steve moves you until you’re pressed against a cold tile wall. You rest your flushed cheek there, pressing your hips back into Steve’s while his fingers work you in slow, massaging circles around your clit.

“I need to decompress. I know, doll, I know,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You whimper when he slides his hand out of your panties, but can’t help canting your hips back again when you feel his fingers hooking into your shorts and sliding them down your thighs. You manage to kick them away, send them sliding across the tile, expecting the next thing you feel to be Steve’s cock pressing into you. It isn’t, though; he turns you roughly, presses your back against the wall and kneels in front of you. You’re flushed and sighing, trying to keep your breathing steady; you look him in the eye and he doesn’t break it, curling a hand under your knee and easily hitching your leg over his shoulder.

His position lets you feel the heat of his breath washing over your pussy and you brace yourself, too aware of how long it’s been, and too aware of how good he is at this—you taught him what you like, and he never forgot it. He nuzzles into the heat of your body and a sound of satisfaction comes rumbling out of him. You feel his mouth open, his tongue flattening out and laving over your clit in one slow, firm stroke. His hands slide up along your flanks and anchor themselves in the meat of your hips, holding you tight while he cranes his neck to reach you, sitting up a little higher on his knees to lap at your pussy like he’s starved for it. He dips down low, licks a firm, back to front stroke over your cunt, the end of his nose dragging smoothly over your clit before his mouth finds it and he latches on, the full softness of his plush mouth cupped around it to suckle like a hungry kitten. Steve knows what he’s doing and revels in the taste of you, letting it slick up his mouth so that when he pulls back to look up at you, his lips are glossy with your sheen.

He sucks two fingers into his mouth and sinks them into you, suckling your clit between his lips and the soft cup of his tongue all over again. You pass your hands through his hair, your foot curled against his wide shoulders, gripping him tight and pulling him in, rocking your hips against his mouth. He crooks his fingers, pulls them toward himself as if beckoning and your knee buckles; you’re thankful for his strength, for his shoulders and his hand practically holding you up until he pulls away, eases his fingers out of you and shrugs your leg off his shoulder.

Steve stands, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand. He takes your wrist and pulls you with a rough, “Come here,” and guides you to the sink, locking eyes with you in the mirror as he slides behind you, covers your back with his body and gets his arm around you, a hand on your throat, just underneath your jaw, holding you in place. He pushes down his boxers with his free hand and guides his cock into you, one slow, long stroke until he’s seated inside, bottomed out and pressed tight to you. You tense beneath him, spreading your legs wide apart and trying to push back against him for some movement, any sort of friction, but he holds you tight, getting his mouth on the sensitive skin at the crook of your neck and making you look at him in the mirror, his eyes gleaming with mischievous satisfaction.

You realize you’d been holding your breath when he finally moves, pulling out until you feel the head of his cock leave you empty, your insides clutching around nothing, when he thrust back in, quick and hard. That’s the pace he sets—every thrust is all-the-way-in; every pull is all-the-way-out, and he’s so hard, so feverish hot, that you ache for it, heat blooming up through your body.

Steve’s mouth finds your ear and he holds your gaze in the mirror, your hands anchored to the sink. “You know I’d never neglect you on purpose,” he says, his voice a low croon. The timbre of it gives you chills; sends them shooting up your spine, goosebumps breaking out all over your arms. You close your eyes for a moment of reprieve, but he scolds you with a soft click of his tongue, tightening his grip on your throat. “Look at me. When you come, I want you to look me in the eye. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you answer, breathless, nearly choking on the word. You’ve got tears in your eyes—you can’t feel them, but you can see them brimming, in the mirror and at your periphery. You know Steve can see them, too. 

He croons, just so gently, “That’s my good girl. You missed this. Look at you.” He lets you squeeze your eyes shut, as long as you open them again within seconds, gasping, whining as he fucks you, getting his hands on your hips and leaning back to put all his weight behind his every thrust. It nearly knocks the breath out of you, how deep he gets, how hard he is and how hard he fucks you, and watching him in the mirror—his face is flushed, his jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed and tense. He slides a big, warm hand up the back of your shirt and through the neck of it, squeezing your nape, holding you. 

You close your legs, tightening your body’s grip on his cock. The insides of your thighs are slick as they squeeze tight together. Looking at Steve, you can tell how close he is; he covers your body with his again and gets his arms around you, locking eyes with you in the mirror, his thrust growing shorter, but deeper. “Good girl,” he whispers, gruff, into your ear, teeth grazing the fleshy lobe of it, and just like that, he’s widening his stance and fucking so deep into you that it almost hurts, hitting something sweet and raw inside of you; he groans low, muffled against your jaw, his hand around your throat, his hips rocking against yours, never pulling out.

When his fingers find your clit again, kneading in slow, firm circles, it’s too much. You whimper, sobbing, squeezing your eyes shut and holding tight to the sink; one hand strays behind you, grabs hold of a fistful of Steve’s t-shirt, and then his hair, holding him tight. He steadies you with a few coaxing little sounds against your ear, soft _shh, shh, shh_ s against your skin. “Show me how much you missed me,” he tells you, and it’s like he’s flipped a switch, his fingers stroking slick over your clit, your body arching, muscles clutching at the length of his cock where it’s buried inside you to the root. 

“Good girl,” he says again, his fingers going still over your clit, letting the heat linger and knowing how sensitive you are—too sensitive to continue to endure any kind of friction. You’re shaking, your knees weak; he lets the tight, steady throb of your muscles pull him steadily to orgasm, comes groaning low into your neck with his cock buried deep inside you. A handful of hard kicks of his pulse later and you can feel his seed dripping out of you, feel him dragging it up over your clit, all friction gone so that it’s only the sensation of his slippery fingers sliding warm and slow over you.

He’s still holding you when he pulls out, panting, pressing kisses to the back of your neck. All you want is to lie down and sleep, now, but Steve is gathering you up in his arms, kissing every inch of your skin that he can reach, slowly coming down before herding you over to the shower. He pulls his shirt off over his head, lets his boxers slide down around his ankles and off. He tugs at your shirt, urging you to do the same while he turns on the water, getting it hot.

“Come on,” you whine, balking at the shower door. “Let’s take a nap first.”

“You’re filthy,” he says, grinning, pressing up against you and reaching down to slide his fingers through the wetness between your thighs. He’s right—you feel messy.

“Fine,” you say, not willing to put up a fight. He beckons you into the walk-in shower with him, pulling you by your hand into a kiss, slow and sweet.

“I missed you,” you tell him.

“I know. I missed you, too.”

“I could tell. Can you miss me all the time?” You’re grinning, putting your back to the hot water and letting it rush over you, your hands disappearing between your bodies, gently stroking over Steve’s softening cock. He pours shampoo into his hands, rubs them together and combs them through your wet hair.

"I do miss you all the time."

"Then fuck me like you miss me all the time," you tell him, watching his cheeks flush and his mouth tilt into a shy little grin.

You lean up to kiss him, and he returns it, soft and sweet. It's good to have him back.


End file.
